The Continental Journal of an English Gentleman
by AVAAntares
Summary: *SPOILERS FOR END OF SERIES* 1897: After the bombing of London, two English gentlemen leave England to seek their fortune on the Continent, encountering Persons Of Note along the way.
1. London to Calais, 1897

Spoiler Warning: This story takes place after the end of the Count Cain/Godchild series, and thus may contain spoilers for same. (Then again, I've also been told by my beta-readers that this story works as well or better as a standalone, so one needn't be familiar with Count Cain to read it.)

* * *

The Continental Journal of an English Gentleman

- - -

London to Calais, 1897

The date, as near as I can learn, is 2 July, 1897. Nine days have passed since my rebirth, during which time C. and I have been hiding in the chapel of St Simon. We are but two more nameless refugees sheltering among the rest since the disaster. We pretend to know no more than the official explanation, which is that the city was devastated by a series of gas explosions. This fabrication has done little to calm the masses, and – according to rumor, which is all that reaches us here – London is yet plagued by chaos and riots.

C. has persuaded the priest, by what means I do not know, to let us have a little room to ourselves. As there is little else to do, I have largely occupied my time here with becoming accustomed to my new body. In size and appearance it is very much the same as the old one – how strange it is to write such a thing! – but without the familiar aches and sensitivities that one scarcely notices until they are absent, but without which one's movements do not feel entirely natural. The scars are of course gone as well, and C. tells me that I look much younger now. Although I have not yet seen my own face in a glass, I can guess that the lines and marks of expression, which make a countenance familiar to one's intimates, must now be absent from my face. C. has not commented on this, but in recent days it seems he pays heed more to my words than to any look or expression.

C. has been careful not to leave me alone for too long, which has prevented me from dwelling on the questions that hang like a shroud over my new life. I have not yet summoned the courage to ask what bargain or what sacrifice he made to restore me. I fear the answer, for I know too well what strains of science and evil magic were bred in that tower. I can only pray to God that when he called back my spirit, he captured only me, and not the whole dark soul of which I am but a fragment. I do not know if I am strong enough to again overcome the evil nature of my true self.

It is this fear that spurs me to keep a journal, which I have begun here. I shall set my thoughts in writing, so that, should I lose myself again – in which case I pray that I die before I can bring harm to those I love – there shall be a record, so that no one may doubt my true feelings.

C. returning, so I close.

* * *

4 July

A brief moment of privacy, as C. is sleeping. He seems overly fatigued these days, and I worry for his condition. He has tried to conceal his wounds from me, but – I hope he will pardon my saying – C. is a terrible liar. It is difficult to deceive a doctor, and doubly so when said Dr has had years to become familiar with his patient's habits and mannerisms. When he wakes I will demand that he let me dress the wounds myself. It is nearly two weeks; they should have healed by now.

I have also noticed that his emerald ring is missing. I do not think that he would permit it to be stolen; perhaps he has bartered it for our food and privacy. I hope that this is not the case, as it is a family heirloom, and possibly dangerous in the wrong hands. It is selfish of me, but I do not wish to have to make excuses to the family guardians.

C. has said nothing to me of home, nor of returning. I wonder if he does not feel well enough to travel. I hope that my presence is not an obstacle to his return. I know that my betrayal will not be easily explained to the others, but I wish to return with him, even if I must give up my situation.

* * *

5 July

C. will not tell me how he received the strange wounds on his forearms, which leads me to fear that it was in some way related to the ritual he performed to restore me. Someday I will have the truth from him, but at the moment he is reluctant to speak of anything concerning what happened at the tower.

While I bandaged his wounds last night, C. spoke to me for the first time of his plans for the future. He does not wish to return home, or at least not yet. He says he wishes to leave London, and recent events, far behind, and travel abroad. He was quite firm that he wanted no contact whatsoever with the family estate, which leaves me wondering how he expects to fund his travels. I have never thought to prepare a line of credit under a false name, but now I see how such an arrangement could be useful.

The task of financing will no doubt fall to me, as it always has, but I do not resent it. Already he possesses my life and my soul, and a little manual labour is but small interest to pay. However, I fear I cannot support the lifestyle and spending habits to which my lord heretofore has been accustomed. We'll have a few weeks of bread and cheese, and – short of a miraculous legacy falling into my hands – we may well be walking to Dover.

I am concerned that C. has not spoken of his family, save to emphasize that he did not want to return there. I have gathered that he sent his sister away to stay with relatives, but he has not sent a message informing her that he is alive. I wonder if he did not expect to survive... did he cut himself off from his loved ones before going into battle? Is no-one waiting for him?

* * *

5 July, late

After long discussion, we have a plan. We will leave London for Maidstone, where we will work to earn enough for new clothes and passage across the Channel. Then we shall work our way down to Dover, cross to Calais, and thence to Paris. C. is enamoured of the idea of the bohemian lifestyle, wandering whenever and wherever there is opportunity. Perhaps I am thinking too practically, but I find myself worrying more about what we shall eat and where we shall sleep as we wander. C. does not see this as an issue, and my attempts to impress its importance upon him have been met with casual disinterest.

I hope he proves easier to convince once he is out of London. We depart tomorrow, early.

* * *

11 July

Arrived Maidstone late in evening. C. not well; wounds infected. Light failing, and too exhausted to write.

* * *

14 July

Two days of rest have at last allowed me a moment of leisure in which to append this journal, which of late has been sorely neglected.

The wounds on C.'s arms have proved disturbingly resistant to treatment. Between Swanley and Maidstone the wounds again became inflamed and he fell very ill, at last requiring me to carry him for several miles. The last of our coin went for a cot in a crowded hostel, where C. slept, unmoving, until the hosteler evicted us the next day. (The London refugees are pouring out of the city in all directions, and I am told that there is not a decent bed to be had for miles.) The hostel was hardly clean or restful, and but for the rain, I would have saved the p. and looked for a grassy patch off the road for the night.

I am without decent medical supplies – how I wish now for my familiar bag of medicines and instruments! – but I have made do with what I have found or begged along the way. Fortunately, C. has an unnaturally strong constitution. His fever broke this morning, and he will no doubt want to continue on to Dover as soon as he is strong enough to walk. In the meantime, he is obeying my orders to rest.

We are sheltering in a picturesque gazebo at the back of a well-kept lawn belonging to one of the region's finer country estates. Only one of our hosts is aware of our presence, and he is a boy of no more than six or seven years. In the manner of one who finds a puppy but fears his parents will forbid him to keep it, the boy has hidden us in the garden and made a game of sneaking out to visit. I have not yet decided if the child is quite charming or a galloping terror... but in any case we are in his debt for two days' worth of food and most of a deck of cards.

Bertie, our young benefactor, is quite unique, in a way that defies simple description. I will reproduce one of our conversations here, to the best of my memory:

'I say' – the boy begins most of his sentences this way – 'I say, is it dead?' He is referring to C., who has not been fully conscious for the better part of three days. I explain that my master is very ill, but he is only sleeping, not dead.

'Frenchie Newton had a toad that died the other day,' the boy says, crouching down for a better look at C. 'Was his best jumper, that toad was. It dropped dead mid-jump, just flipped over on its back, like this...' He sticks his arms out and twists halfway over. 'Its name was Wally, on account of he caught it on a visit to Cornwall. Frenchie had another toad named Corny, but that one came from Devonshire.' The boy points at C. thoughtfully and adds, 'I say, I think I'll call him Wally, too. He looks like he flipped over mid-jump.'

Bertie looks at me, and I have a strong suspicion that he is trying to align my appearance with another of Frenchie's pet jumping toads. Before he can dub me after some deceased amphibious namesake, I quickly ask the boy if it would be possible for him to bring me some medicine and clean bandages.

'Oh, no.' He looks chagrined – briefly. 'I'm not allowed anywhere near those things, not since we played mummy and accidentally embalmed Thaddy Hopper. I have a deck of cards, though,' he says inexplicably, and produces it from a pocket, along with a broken poker chip. I am afraid to ask where a boy his age came by them. 'Its missing the three of diamonds, so when you deal you have to hand over a pretend card to someone, and everyone has to pretend like they don't know that the pretend card is the three of...'

I take the cards, just to stop his talking, and ask if he might be able to find us some food.

'I could bring you something to eat. I came out through the kitchen, and supper is steak-and-kidney pie. Just came out of the oven. I could nick it for you.'

I am ashamed to admit how close I am to accepting the boy's offer. I have not tasted hot food since – well, never, in this body. But as I am already making a thief of the lad, I do not want to put the boy at any more risk of punishment than necessary, nor to deprive his family of their supper. In the end, I persuade him to bring us some bread and vegetables.

'So, no pie?' he asks.

'No, just the vegetables,' I answer.

'You'll want some potatoes, then? And carrots. And roast beef?'

I start to point out that roast beef isn't a vegetable, but Bertie just looks confused.

'But beef is made from cows, right? And cows eat things like potatoes and carrots and grass...'

Fortunately, his logical fallacy is interrupted by a shrill voice from the house: '_Bertram_!' The name cuts across the lawn like a train's whistle; I can't imagine the human who makes such a sound. She must be more than formidable.

The boy crumples at hearing his name. 'Aunt Agatha is calling me,' he explains. 'I say, do you have any aunts?'

I reply that I do not.

'Don't get any,' he advises me sagely. 'They're all sorts of trouble.'

Despite B.'s eccentricities, there is something likable about the boy. He is kind-hearted, if a little odd, and perhaps without realizing it he paid me a great compliment this evening after he returned with the food (which, it is worth noting, did not include roast beef, but did include a block of very fine cheese, which I accepted with not a little guilt). I had roused C. and was helping him drink some water. B. watched for a few minutes, and then said:

'I say, you're a whatsit... a valet, aren't you? Or are you more of a butler?'

I was both in C.'s service, of course, but there is a distinction in most houses, so I replied that I was what is called a 'gentleman's gentleman.'

The boy nodded very seriously. 'I don't much care for Jenkins – that's Aunt Agatha's butler – but I think I'd like to have a gentleman's gentleman. I wouldn't mind having someone to look after me the way you look after Wally. Aunt Agatha always says I need a lot of looking after.'

Aunt Agatha certainly speaks true – the boy seems to be quite a handful, and I can't begin to imagine what he will be like when he reaches C.'s age, or even older. I don't envy the gentleman who winds up in young Bertram's service... but I wish him luck, all the same.

* * *

16 July

Traveling once again. As C. is still feeling weak, we have hired passage on a refugee wagon that is lumbering slowly toward Dover. I traded half of our bread and Bertie's deck of cards for our fare. Neglected to mention re: three of diamonds – it must have slipped my mind due to the unwarranted rudeness of the driver.

* * *

18 July

Arrived Dover early afternoon. Abandoned the wagon to walk into town, which proved a wise choice, as the flood of refugees from London has made all of England resentful of strangers – particularly those arriving in large groups or on hired carts. Despite the rough stretch between Ashford and Dover, C. proclaimed that he was feeling much better, so we proceeded straight to the docks to inquire about passage to Calais.

As with all things in time of great crisis, the price of passage has trebled in the past few weeks. I fear it will take much longer than I had planned to accumulate the fare, as it will be quite costly for the two of us to cross.

I cannot yet afford a room for my master, but fortunately the weather is holding clear, so we have found a place outside of town to sleep. It is but a few miles from our shelter to the center of town, and I hope to find profitable work there. I spoke with some fishermen, who were all too eager to grumble that since Mr Robertson's announcement that the Government would proceed with the long-deferred construction of the national harbor, Dover has witnessed an enormous increase in trade and travel. In two years, the town has swelled more quickly than new housing can be built. This is favorable for me, for even if I cannot earn bread with my medical training, surely there will be someone in a burgeoning trade town willing to hire an able-bodied labourer.

It is a last resort, and one I am loath to pursue, but there are also the mines to consider. Coal and iron are the bone and flesh of our country's industry, and a rich supply of both veins the under-sea tunnel between Dover and Folkestone.

Then again, with trade flourishing here and on the Continent, I am certain that it is only a matter of time before the tunnel is extended to allow the trains to run from here to France. The _Pas de Calais _are stormy and treacherous, and I for one would be just as content to cross the Channel in a carriage underground, rather than risking the rough waters.

* * *

21 July

Composing this as I return from Dover, and if my penmanship is the worse for it, I do not care. Am in high spirits, as I have at last secured employment with one of the trading companies along the waterfront. It is largely manual labour, for which I will be paid enough to provide C. and myself with at least a decent meal per day, plus a few p. to save against our passage.

I carry with me a celebratory dinner: Half a loaf of bread and a crock of thick stew from a fine old inn called 'The Fisherman's Rest.' I must write less and walk faster, for I am sure C. is as famished as I.

* * *

29 July

I am writing in the taproom of The Fisherman's Rest, where I have begun to take my suppers as a matter of habit. In another half hour this room will be packed with the usual jovial _clientèle_, but for the moment I have a table to myself, and peace enough to write.

I am gradually growing accustomed to the hard labour of loading and unloading the cargo boats. It is an unpleasant thought that this body has seen so little use – I tire more easily than I should, and must tolerate the raw ache of muscles unused to such strain – but although I am not yet as strong as the other workers, my employer is pleased with my effort. He has said as much, and has also hinted that he may have some work for me in the business office, as his secretary has recently left to care for a sickly relative in Brighton. If all goes well, I shall ask him for a letter of recommendation before we cross to Calais.

I quite believe that the proprietress of The Fisherman's Rest wishes to adopt me! Just now, while I was writing, young Mistress Sally – on her mother's orders, no doubt – has brought me a slice of fresh lamb pie. 'It's a new recipe,' she insists, 'and seeing as how you are a man of such fine tastes, Mama wishes you to try it before it's served.' The recipe is no doubt the same that the inn has served for generations, but I must play along and comment upon it as if it is a novelty.

This marks the fourth meal that I have received at no charge here, no matter how I try to press my coin upon them. When there are no customers to serve, the proprietress, Mistress Mabel, enjoys chatting with me, and always provides plenty of food and drink for our conversations. She has told me that the inn has been operated by her family for six generations, and has hosted some of the greatest figures of England's history. I believe she is determined to learn my story, as well, for she asks a great many questions, all aimed to illuminate the shadowed corners of my life. When, at last, I told her that I was trying to earn money to take my younger brother to a warmer climate for his health, she insisted that I bring him to the inn to stay.

'I can find some easy work for the boy to do, to earn his keep,' she assures me, 'and I daresay a warm bed and good meals will do him as much good as anything. I run a clean house, the best in town, so you needn't worry for his health.'

I believe I will accept her offer, as she is undoubtedly right about C.'s wellbeing. I have not yet informed my lord that he is now my younger brother. I wonder what he will think of it?

The room is beginning to fill; it is time I return.

* * *

30 July

As of suppertime this evening, C. is installed in a small room at the Rest. He was happy to move there, not only for the sake of comfort, but for the chance to earn his own board and keep. He told me that he feels guilty forcing me to do all the work to support him, now that he is no longer a gentleman of means. I feared I would laugh at his words – though I dared not! Has he not relied on me to support him, always, ever since he was a child? Of course I would not have had it any other way – I pledged my very life to serve him, and I stand by that oath – but I do not think he realizes how little I actually involved him in the running of the Hargreaves estate.

Or so I thought at first, but on further consideration, I realize that there did come a time when I was no longer by his side. After my betrayal (for I must call it what it was, though it shames me!) my lord was forced abruptly to take the running of his life into his own hands, and protect not only himself, but also Lady Merrywether and the rest of his family. Against all odds, he triumphed against an overwhelming adversary, helped to prevent the destruction of London, and even saved me, though I do not know how.

Then again... shortly after I left his side, my lord also burned his entire estate to the ground. Perhaps I should not judge his financial competency by that period in his life.

In any case, I am glad to see that he is beginning to show interest in becoming self-sufficient. I fear what would become of him were anything to happen to me.

* * *

30 July, late

In an attempt to hide our trail from any would-be pursuers, C. has declared that we should give false names at every stop on our journey. His first choice, given spontaneously to Mrs Mabel, was 'Clyde Corbett' – Corbett, because it is his own middle name, and Clyde, because, as he asserted rather caustically, I had given her the story that he was my younger brother. 'Surely this will be easy for you to remember, if you're asked about me,' he said.

He can not know how deeply his jest has shaken me.

At times, the duality within me fills me with unspeakable fear. My memories are blurred – shadows of reality, overlaid with the surreal fiction created by Delilah's agents, until I cannot distinguish the images from each of my lives. I find myself questioning who I am: Is my other self truly dead? Or is he in control even now, laughing silently as he permits me to dream of a life without him?

I know now that it was Riffuel who aimed the gun... but I, Riff, still have the memory of pulling the trigger. Even my own death could not purge my hands of my brother's blood.

* * *

19 August

I have become so caught up in our lives here that I have not had given thought to this journal for weeks! It must seem a gaping chasm in the narrative of my journey, but now that I read it through, nothing truly outstanding has occurred since my last report.

C. has selectively abandoned certain facets of his elegant and proper upbringing. He is expert at cleaning dishes in Mrs Mabel's kitchen, has learned most of the common games of chance – as well as how to cheat at them – and, although I strongly disapprove of the habit, can now speak as coarsely as any sailor, and in a variety of dialects. He could likely blend into any seaside or market town in England.

I, meanwhile, have metamorphosed into a clerk, of the rather mundane sort. I earn a good wage, however, and we are very close to reaching our goal: That is, enough coin to outfit ourselves with sturdy traveling clothes and afford passage to Calais, with enough left over to feed us on the way to Paris. I would prefer to embark as soon as possible, for if we wait much longer, autumn may spread its storms over the waters of the Channel and make our crossing unpleasant, or even dangerous.

It seems ironic that, although we resided at Cornwall for so long, in that castle overlooking the sea, C. and I never once went yachting. Our first venture out onto the water will be to leave our island home behind us.

I will ask about the fares again tomorrow, and if I have earned enough, we will depart within the week.

* * *

27 August

Arrived Calais late this eve. Had a scare coming into harbor, but survived. C. sleeping heavily, as should I.

* * *

28 August

I must elaborate on last night's entry. I know little of nautical terms, so I cannot describe precisely what happened to our ship, but I do know that at the end of the crossing we came perilously close to a shoal of vicious-looking rocks, to the general panic of the passengers aboard.

When I described our adventure to a few of the locals, they told me that our experience is not unique: In '88, a vessel called the Invicta ran aground, and just two years ago the Empress was stranded in the very same place that threatened our landing. There have been other incidents involving smaller vessels, as well.

I also learned that the Calais harbor has been recently "improved" to the bill of over 45 million francs – and yet it is still not as safe or as sheltered as Boulogne. Still, Calais remains the popular port, given its position at the narrower crossing. After today's adventure, I am hoping once again that the underwater train tunnel is completed before we must make the return journey to England.

* * *

30 August

I have discovered one significant shortcoming in my travel plans: C.'s French is atrocious. I fear that my own grasp of the language is only slightly better: I, unfortunately, was not born to that privileged class of English gentlemen who were brought up by French tutors while their parents toured the Continent. C. was, and has no excuse for his deplorable speech. He attributes his poor accents to his father's irregular views on education, but I find it more likely that the languages of the Continent were simply of less interest to the young Earl Hargreaves than my medical textbooks and the clandestine manuals on poisons he discovered in the cellar.

Here, near the coast, we can communicate well enough in English, but if we wish to travel toward Paris we shall have to expand our vocabulary by several orders of magnitude.

* * *

1 September

I will admit that I thought, during those months that Chavonne was ghosting my steps, slipping me secret notes and stalking me as a cat does a mouse, that it was just her drastic way of participating in K. S.'s plot to discredit me. But now I find that this is not so! No, the longer I remain in France, the more I believe that it is the way of ALL French women to stalk and entrap their unsuspecting prey – _vis __à __vis_, the uninitiated Englishman. The women here are incorrigible flirts, and communicate using some system of hidden signals and secret signs, so that once engaged in conversation, it is impossible for one to extricate one's self without being descended upon by a half-dozen hirudinean _demoiselles_ with dishonorable intentions and designs on one's pocket-book.

At every turn I find one or more of them attempting to abscond with C. He does not seem in the least flustered by the attention, but perhaps that is to be expected: In the arena of London society, he was more often the quarry than the hunter. I can not imagine how he has tolerated it all this time; I am driven nearly mad by the possessive bickering among these painted dolls.

Wholly apart from the troubles with women – which, mercifully, only afflict us when we attempt to secure a night's lodging at some humble _ma__î__son_ along the road – our progress has been slow. We started on foot from Calais the morning before last, and have covered only a handful of miles in two days, due to poor weather and various circumstances. We must tighten our belts and push on faster if we wish our money to last all the way to Paris.

* * *

-- Author's Notes --

Apologies to the following, for absconding with their characters, creations, and/or content:

- P.G. Wodehouse  
- Baroness Emmuska Orczy  
- Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, April 1895  
...and of course, Yuki Kaori, the_ mangaka_ responsible for Count Cain and Godchild. (Lady, if you'd taken proper care of your characters in the first place, this never would have happened.)


	2. Calais to Montreuil, 1897

Calais to Montreuil, 1897

5 September

Spent a quarter hour bargaining with a passing vintner for a ride on his wagon, but in the end he agreed to allow C. & myself to ride on the back rail until he stops at his winery, which is some little way outside of Paris. He is already glad of the arrangement, for this afternoon I helped him lever his wheel out of the mud at the side of the road, saving him half a day's walk and the cost of hiring a local labourer. If it happens again, I shall attempt to barter my labour for free transit.

* * *

7 September

I must take care with the motif of my entries in the future, as my last seems to have been prophetic. Not only did the wagon again become mired shortly after our departure yesterday morning, but the rear wheel was damaged, delaying our journey by nearly two days. The vintner uttered a _malediction_ or two ascribing his poor luck to having taken myself and C. as passengers, but I made myself so invaluable to him during the repair that he was soon thanking Fortune for placing us in his path. Hence, we are now being transported to Meaux – our driver's destination – free of charge.

In Béthune, where we were obliged to shelter for the night after the unfortunate wheel incident, I managed to procure a Parisian newspaper. It is nearly two weeks old, but I hope that it will give us some insight as to the present climate of the capital. Given our lack of resources, I fear it must also be the primary text for our study of the vernacular. I confess, when presented with a paragraph written in the French language, I am at a loss – what becomes of the surplus dozens of letters that are never pronounced aloud?

I am at my leisure to write this evening, as our vintner companion has business to conduct here in Péronne, and consequently we have been left to ourselves for a few hours. C., who at present is the _objet d'admiration_ of a flirtatious barmaid, is enjoying a mug of cider and attempting, in his broken and heavily accented French, to eulogize the English countryside in suitably romantic terms. Judging by the mirth of the barmaid, he is failing spectacularly.

Earlier this evening, C. and I engaged in a long and rather one-sided discussion concerning our _noms des voyage_. At the moment, my master is Adam Corbeau, the star-crossed progeny of an English butler and a French chambermaid, who, on account of his mother's tragic and untimely demise, is journeying to Paris to search for his unknown maternal relations. I, at his bidding, have assumed the _r__ô__le_ of his English cousin Ralph. At least the name he has chosen for me is so near in pronunciation to my given name that I cannot fail to respond when spoken to.

I will close here, as we make an early start tomorrow. I believe I shall avail myself of the _bain chaud_ while I have opportunity, and thence to my clean, private bed. _Quel luxe!_

* * *

11 September

Arrived Meaux mid-afternoon, after an uneventful drive from Senlis. Our vintner friend bid us _bon chance_ at a crossroads and pointed us toward Paris, though not until he had secured from us a promise to try his vineyard's exquisite _Cabernet_ before we left the area.

I haven't much knowledge of French geography – a failing I must remedy should C. declare a wish to wander anywhere else – but it seems we are some twenty-five miles east of Paris. We are within a day's walk of our goal, and yet I have no idea what we shall do when we arrive. I believe the absurdity of our position is finally beginning to dawn on C. as well – it was at his suggestion that we spent the remainder of the afternoon in Meaux, seeking temporary employment to replenish our funds before arriving in Paris. Our first inquiries were unsuccessful, but we must persevere; no doubt we will pay dearly for lodging within the city, and our chances of finding charity in Paris are likely no better than in London.

For now, stealth is once again our provider: Our night's lodging is a corner of the narthex in the magnificent cathedral that watches over the town.

* * *

19 September

I must summarise the whirlwind events of the past several days, for I have been far too occupied to record them as they have occurred. Much has happened, including a strange series of coincidences that leave me yet in awe of the great luck that Fortune has commended to us.

We departed Meaux one week ago, intending to continue our search for employment in the communities along the outskirts of Paris. The weather, favouring foot travelers like ourselves, had achieved a state of perfection that has rarely been seen in England – at last I realize why so much of English society flees to the Continent for holidays! – and the clear air and fresh breeze had imbued every creature on the road with high spirits. Particularly affected were horses under saddle; riders passed us frequently on the road to Paris, their mounts tossing their heads and tugging at the bit for more rein.

About midmorning, we were startled by the sound of a woman's scream, and a moment later a frothing and riderless horse bolted out of the forested stretch to the south. As there was no-one else on the road, C. dashed into the forest to look for the source of the scream, while I cautiously pursued the horse, whose rein dangled dangerously as it cantered toward the road. The horse shied away from me, but at the same moment caught the loose rein beneath one hoof and stumbled. The sudden pull on its bit halted it momentarily, and I had just reached the trembling animal when I heard C. calling me urgently from within the wood. With the broken rein as a lead, I trotted the horse toward the sound of the voice, and found C. kneeling beside an unconscious woman. Her smart riding habit was stained with blood, which upon further examination proved to be from a shallow laceration along one side of her scalp. One of her arms was twisted beneath her at an unnatural angle, clearly broken.

C. rode for help – the braid trim torn from the woman's jacket replaced the broken rein – while I bandaged the head wound and bound the arm close to the body so that the ends of the broken bone would not grind when she was moved. I bore her to the edge of the forest and waited for C. to return with assistance, which he did in early afternoon. (Although he rode quickly, there was apparently some difficulty in communicating the details of the situation to the local physician. He really must practice his French!)

The physician made a cursory examination of the woman's injuries before having her placed carefully in the back of his cart. At his request, we rode alongside the patient, who was only semi-conscious, to watch and steady her against the jarring of the cart. In this way we accompanied the physician to his home near Montreuil, arriving well after dark due to the cautious driving pace. As it was so late, the physician offered us beds for the night in exchange for our help with the injured woman, and we gladly accepted.

The next morning, after a dour-faced maid had brought us _petit déjeuner_ in the form of coffee and croissants, I sought out the physician and inquired after the woman's condition. He gave me a rather curious look, then asked me to follow him into his study.

I was told first that the woman's wound had been stitched, that she had regained full consciousness during the night, and that he did not think that there would be lasting damage from the head concussion. Her arm was badly broken, but he had set and braced it as best as could be done. He had sent a message to the family early that morning, and expected that she would be recovered enough to return to her home the next day.

Then, unexpectedly, the physician turned his full attention to me and gave me a measuring look. _'C'est vous qui avez la tête bandée, n'avez-vous pas?'_

On second thought, I shall recount it in English, as my French is yet imperfect. He asked first if I had bandaged the woman's wounds, and I answered that I had. He replied, somewhat reluctantly, that it had been very neatly done, and may well have saved the woman's life; if a fragment of marrow from her broken arm had been jostled loose and gone to her heart, it could have killed her. Again he looked me over and inquired where I had been traveling, what kind of work I did, and so forth, and it was only then that I understood his attitude of disbelief: He saw only an unkempt, unshaven wretch in labourer's clothes, and could not believe that such a man could possess any skill in medicine.

My thoughts were divided: I did not wish to advertise my former profession, lest some pursuing agent of Delilah learn of it; and yet after the physician's kindness to us I felt that he should have some explanation. I told him, honestly, that I had been given the opportunity to study medicine when I was young, but had not been able to complete my studies. The physician laughed openly, and I was reminded abruptly of my new body's youthful appearance.

'I will not pry into your circumstances,' he said – or something with the same intention, in his own tongue – 'but perhaps you would be interested in completing your education?'

I sat speechless for a moment, for I had not expected such an offer, and in my confusion could not form the words in French to reply to him. He misconstrued my silence and went on: 'But you are in the middle of a journey, and I do not mean to divert you. It is only that I hoped to have an assistant for a few weeks. The young man who has been working for me is a student at the University, but he was called away...'

I did not hear why the young man was called away, for my mind had seized on this chance and was already considering the details of the arrangement. I asked, timidly, what might become of my cousin (for so C. calls himself at the moment) if I were to stay on – for we had fallen on difficult times, and did not have the coin to pay for rooms. He considered this briefly before, as I had hoped, offering meals and lodging for the two of us in exchange for my work as his assistant. 'It is only until Gérard returns,' he said, 'and as you have seen, I have cots enough to spare.' He kindly suggested that he could help my cousin find some kind of work in Montreuil, which would allow us to save a little money while we were not obliged to pay for our board.

Any pretense of brevity having been abandoned pages ago, I will at least truncate the account of the days following this exchange... but that which he suggested is precisely what we have done. I find myself – mercifully! – clean-shaven and neatly attired once more, assisting Dr Budin by cleaning his instruments, bottling medications for patients and performing other simple tasks. C. has found work at a nearby livery. His earnings are as humble as the work he does, but it is reassuring to watch the gradual increase of our tiny fortune.

Dr Budin does not expect Gérard to return for at least two months, so we have ample time in which to plan the next stage of our journey.

* * *

24 September

After my previous entry – which, I fear, was protracted unnecessarily in my enthusiasm to recount recent events – I found myself with only two worn sheets of foolscap remaining in my supply. On the pretext of wishing to make notes from some of his medical texts, I asked Dr Budin for some paper, and he kindly provided me with this leather-bound note-book. Not wishing to lose the journal I have kept up to this point, and lacking the time at present to copy it over, I have folded the pages and sewn them into the binding with the others.

There is no change in our situation to report. Dr Budin's practice is flourishing, and I am kept so busy assisting him that I see C. only at night, and rarely awake, as he retires before I am finished with my work. I had forgotten the fundamental urgency of medicine; not since my days at the hospital have I been so pressed to perform so many small tasks in such a short time.

* * *

5 October

From time to time I recall this journal, and think that I should be writing in it; and yet, each day is so like the next that I hardly know what to record. I am enjoying my work as Dr Budin's assistant. For perhaps the first time within my memory, I am legitimately able to employ and expand my medical training with no ulterior motive. Dr Budin stays abreast of the latest research, so there are always journals to read and theories to discuss – though these debates are lamentably hampered by my limited knowledge of the French language. I am making every effort to polish my conversation, but _il s'agit d'une manière inefficace damnés de communiquer_, if I may say so.

The Dr told me that he is pleased with my work, and said that he would be happy to recommend me to any of his colleagues when Gérard returns. He admitted to being surprised at the extent of my knowledge of medicine; he had not expected a man so young to know so much. I suppose he thinks me much younger than my 28 years, but I see no reason to correct him. On the contrary, there may be some advantage to being thought of as very young.

* * *

10 October

Such a fool I have been!

No, much more than a fool. If there are epithets vile enough to describe my blind, willful egocentricity over these past few weeks, I shall not waste ink and paper attempting to compile them; I have passed the evening whispering them to myself a thousand times over, and at last abandoned my sleepless recumbence to make a record of my utter contemptibility, which follows.

Today being Sunday, my duties ended rather earlier than usual. I returned to our little room perhaps an hour before dinner, intending to change early and pass the intervening time with some volumes borrowed from Dr Budin's library. To my surprise, C. had already returned from the livery. He lay in a small coil upon his cot, still dressed in his soiled work clothes.

This is so unlike my master's usual fastidiousness that even before the scene had fully registered in my mind I found myself bending over the cot, searching for signs of illness or injury. Apart from a strong smell of horse and a peculiarly intense expression on C.'s sleeping face, I could find nothing out of the ordinary; yet something in his manner indicated that all was not well. I first crossed the room to close the door – we take great care to avoid being overheard – and then called to him. His response was an inarticulate growl, and when I spoke to him again he only curled his body into a tighter ball. His unresponsiveness disturbed me, so at last I shook him gently awake.

When at last he managed to lift his bleary gaze and blink his eyes clear enough to recognize me, C. made a small whimpering sound and dropped his head back to the bed. 'Let me sleep, Riff,' he murmured into the blanket, the words barely audible. I tried to rouse him again, but he went on, 'Just want to sleep. So d--d tired...'

I shook him awake once again and insisted that he at least change into clean nightclothes before sleeping, though I was more concerned with seeing him move and respond than with the condition in which he slept. I very nearly lifted him out of the bed, as he lacked either the inclination or the strength to stand on his own, but as soon as he was on his feet he twisted out of my grasp and sat down heavily on the edge of the cot. He squinted against the light coming through the small window and began rubbing his rather dusty face with one rather grimy hand – which, though a sign that he was undoubtedly awake and functional, caused me no little distress as C.'s valet, particularly since in recent weeks it has been my pleasure to live and work in a clean, tidy environment.

I retrieved the cloth, pitcher and basin from the washstand, but directly I attempted to wipe the dust from one of his hands, he snatched it away from me with a liberal series of imprecations. The harsh words froze me; even my hands, holding the dripping cloth, trembled in place and could not find their way back to the bowl.

C. had wrapped both arms around his body, hands tucked well out of my reach, and now he glared miserably at the mud-caked boots that had been discarded on the floor alongside the cot. There was silence for no little time, and our eyes did not meet.

Presently there came the creak of the maid's step on a loose floorboard in the hall, and the sound jarred me out of my immobility. I quietly returned the pitcher and other items to the washstand, taking more time than was needed to wring the water out of the cloth and hang it on its peg. At length I heard C.'s whisper: 'I'm sorry, Riff. I didn't mean to... to be sharp.'

I know better than anyone what it costs C. to apologise, but in that moment – I am humiliated to recall – I could find no words to answer him. Instead I merely turned to look at him, taking in his pathetic expression and his oddly hunched posture. His arms were still wrapped protectively around his torso, but instead of being clenched into fists, I noted that his fingers hung open, almost claw-like. Even across the room, I could see them faintly trembling.

In two strides I had reached the cot again, and although he cringed, C. did not resist this time as I appropriated one of his hands. For a moment I could only stare in horror; then I turned wordlessly and left the room. Fortune was with me, for I did not meet anyone as I descended to collect supplies from the examining room.

When I returned, C. was gingerly attempting to sponge the dust from his face with the damp cloth. I seated him on the cot again and carefully cleaned and dressed his hands, which were crossed with blisters and ugly-looking cuts. A violently chromatic bruise suffused the back of one hand, probably covering a cracked metacarpal. The elegant, aristocratic fingers were unrecognizable, torn and calloused, the once-manicured nails split and caked with filth. I had thought he had simply been caring for horses in the livery, but clearly his position involved far more manual labour than I had imagined.

As I finished bandaging his damaged fingers, I demanded to know why he had not mentioned his hands to me sooner. I did not mean to sound angry, but I fear that there was an edge to my voice.

C. regarded me for a moment, and then answered, 'I wasn't aware that I needed to bring my injuries to your attention.'

The remark sparked a flash of ire in me, but as I began to form a retort the full impact of his words struck me. Shouldn't I know every detail of my master's condition without being told? I, who claimed to be so absolutely connected to him that I could track him anywhere in London? I, who had sworn my life to serve and protect him?

In that speechless instant I saw him, truly, for the first time in weeks: His thin frame, his disheveled, limp hair, the blisters on his hands, the shadows in the hollows of his face all testified to the strain he had been under – and yet I had not seen it, so preoccupied had I been with my own contentedness. How could I have lost sight of my very purpose in life?

C. tugged his fingers from my grip and shifted awkwardly on the cot, putting infinitesimally more distance between us. 'Perhaps I would have better luck if I scheduled an appointment,' he added, a trifle sulkily. 'At least it would be a break from shoveling horse —'

The roll of bandages fell from my nerveless fingers, interrupting his complaint. The situation called for a proper apology – tearful, abject, groveling – but I could scarcely find my voice, much less the words to phrase such a thing. In the end, all I could manage was a strangled, 'Forgive me.'

In the brief silence that followed, I saw a trace of the familiar, inborn arrogance return to C.'s expression. 'Well,' he said aristocratically, 'I suppose the rest of your service has been satisfactory, on the whole, so I'll overlook it this once. But I'll have to dock your pay as punishment, you know.'

Properly reminded of my place, I washed C.'s face, as his hands were somewhat immobilized by the bandages, and helped him change into cleaner clothes. I persuaded him to stay awake long enough to eat something, and after I'd brought a tray from the kitchen (for dinner was long since cleared) we both retired.

Not ten minutes after I had turned down the lamp, I felt a jab in my shoulder. 'Shove over,' C. grumbled. 'My blankets smell like a stable. In lieu of pay, I'm docking one half of your bed.' He proceeded to curl up at the foot of the cot and fall instantly asleep, leaving me with no place to put my legs. How he can be comfortable sleeping in that position, coiled up like a kitten, I can't imagine; but it probably helps that he is a foot-odd shorter than I am.

I am considering moving to the other cot, but the musty odor is noticeable even across the room. I dread breathing any closer to the source than I must.

Even so, I fancy it's a mild enough punishment. By morning, things will be as they were between us; that in itself is worth the cramped back I will have from leaning against the wall to sleep.

* * *

18 October

If there is any lesson that I have stubbornly refused to learn – though my own life has demonstrated it many times over – it is that no position, no matter how desirable or secure, is permanent. Fate once again thrust this example upon me in the form of a telegram that was delivered to Dr Budin just before luncheon. It was a message from his assistant, happily informing the doctor that the heretofore absent Gérard will be returning earlier than expected. Consequently, I have only a little over a week to find a new situation for myself and C.

I daresay C. will be grateful for the change; he has made no secret of his distaste for manual labour, and of late has made a number of colorful remarks expressing his opinion of the livery master.

Apart from C.'s discomfort – which, I am reminded, far outweighs any sentiment of my own – I have been quite satisfied with my work here. Sadly, I hold little hope of finding another such position in Paris; advanced though my medical knowledge may be, the fact remains that I never formally completed my studies, and this city is home to far too many students from the University to hope for a proper apprenticeship.

* * *

22 October

I have spent the past several evenings making inquiries all through Montreuil and eastern Paris, but without success. Time and money are both dreadfully short; C.'s meager income from the livery and the other odd jobs he takes is hardly enough to feed one mouth, much less two, and we haven't enough coin to keep us under a lodging-house roof for much more than a week.

I fear I must throw myself upon Dr Budin's mercy and beg him for a referral to one of his colleagues; but a desire for secrecy renders this a last resort. I do not feel that it would be wise to advertise among the society of Parisian doctors, lest any agents of Delilah be lurking among them.

* * *

23 October

How strange Fortune is!

I returned to the house this evening after a disheartening tramp about the town, having convinced myself at last to appeal to Dr Budin's network of associates for employment, only to find Dr Budin entertaining a guest. Hearing me enter, the Dr beckoned me into his study and introduced me enthusiastically to an older gentleman. He communicated to me that Dr Curie (for so the guest was named) had just arrived, having stopped by to deliver certain books that he had promised to Dr Budin. I understood from their conversation that Dr Curie's wife had very recently died, and that he had lately moved in with his son's family.

'But though I had hoped to reduce the time I devote to my medical practice, I find myself even more busy than before,' Dr Curie lamented, 'caring for little Irène – my granddaughter,' he explained to me, 'was born the twelfth of last month. But every moment that Pierre and Marie do not spend with the child is taken up with their research, and they have no time to tend to the house and chores. I am very near to hiring a servant to look after things – provided I can find one who is trustworthy, and will not interfere with my son's studies.'

At that moment I experienced a peculiar elation, and glanced at Dr Budin to see him peering at me over his spectacles with a conspiratorial smile.

It was arranged almost before I knew it: Dr Budin made the suggestion, praising my abilities and work ethic, and Dr Curie eagerly agreed to a two-week trial to see how well my services fit with the house routine.

Dr Curie did warn me that theirs is not what would be considered a typical family; but I do not think it possible for any household to be stranger than the things I have encountered in my years of service to the Hargreaves family.

I anxiously await C.'s return from the livery. I am eager to give him the news.

* * *

-- Author's Notes --

For non-Anglophiles: The English name Ralph has a long A and a silent L (pronounced "Rafe," not "Rowlf" as it would be in America). I believe Yuki Kaori commented in one of her columns that some readers mistakenly wrote Riff's name this way in their letters (katakana being, of course, phonetic).


	3. Montreuil to Paris, 1897

Montreuil to Paris, 1897

25 October

Today C. and I arrived at what is to be our home for the next two weeks. Dr Curie hired a cab to bring us into Paris, and we are now situated in a modest house on the _rue _Kellerman. I have been introduced to Pierre, the Dr's son and the owner of the house, but I have seen Marie, his wife, and Irène, his infant daughter, only at a distance as they passed through the garden. I suppose we shall meet them this evening.

C. is elated to be free of his livery duties, as I am to be free of his vitriolic commentary regarding the livery master.

* * *

30 October

I was told a short while ago to expect the Curie family's routine to deviate from that of the characteristic Parisian household, and I find that Dr Budin spoke truthfully. M and Mme (for so I shall call them, to keep them apart from Dr Curie, my employer) are chemists, and pass hours in the laboratory performing complex experiments. On those occasions when their meals are taken with the Dr, the conversation revolves around pitchblende and metals and concepts I can't begin to follow with my lacking French vocabulary.

Mme is Polish-born, perhaps a few years older than myself, and is by no means a woman to be taken lightly. She is without doubt the most educated woman I have ever met, and has a serious, scientific nature that drives her to keep written notes of every detail – not only with regard to her research, but also of her daughter's development. I doubt if there has ever been so exact a record of a child's daily routine as that of little Irène. She also has very strong preferences as to how that routine is performed; in a sort of trial-by-fire, I have learned not to contradict her instructions.

Apart from tracking the unusual pattern of the household, my duties are unremarkable. I perform simple tasks, such as laundering, cleaning, gardening and so forth, and occasionally assist Dr Curie with the medical work from which he has thus far failed to retire.

There are no proscribed tasks for C. to perform, which was to his liking for the first few days while he recovered from the physical strain of his livery work, but now he is beginning to grow restless. From time to time he entertains Irène when the nurse is otherwise occupied, but I fear that the novelty of that game will fade quickly. I will speak to the Dr and see if there is any light household work to be done.

* * *

2 November

Half of our fortnight has passed, but I have heard no further mention of the suitability trial; I believe the Dr is so relieved to have additional hands to assist him that he has forgotten the measure was to be temporary. This is, of course, promising news for myself and C.

Tonight there is to be some kind of _soirée_ at the Curie house. It is hardly the time, as I have been given to understand that such events are usually held during the Season, and often staged in the garden, but apparently some urgency in M and Mme's scientific research has prompted them to invite a group of colleagues for a discussion.

It has been months, perhaps more than a year, since I last performed the duties of butler at such a social event, and although I am versed in every English custom, I do not know what is currently correct in Paris. It is irresponsible of me to hope that the guests will be so occupied with the scientific discussion that they will not notice any _faux pas_ I may commit, but such is the case.

* * *

3 November, early

The clock is striking half past three, and the last guests have only just departed. I am no stranger to the long hours and all-night balls of the English set, but rarely have I witnessed an event with so little frivolity stretch late into the night. The physicists and University students who attended engaged in avid scientific discussion throughout the night, and even the enthusiastic consumption of brandy and _hors d'oeuvre_ did not sway them from their purpose – despite the flush that the former brought to their cheeks. To call such an intense debate a _soirée_ is almost comical; such elevated concepts would be more at home atop the Areopagus.

As I look over my previous entry, I am once again convicted; I have let concern for myself outweigh consideration for my master's position. C., who for much of his life has been at the center of society's _rondo_, stood silently away from the activity throughout the evening, watching the animated discussion with detached interest. For once I could not guess what he was thinking of it all; I was kept too busy serving the guests to speak to him, and when I had finished my belowstairs work, he had already retired.

* * *

5 November

The house is in a state of great distress on account of little Irène, who has contracted a bad cough. It is likely nothing more than congestion brought on by the cold weather, but – as Dr said gravely, out of Mme's hearing – we cannot yet rule out influenza or other disease. At such a vulnerable age even a minor illness can quickly turn to peripneumonia, lung fever, or worse. Mme is as frantic as I have seen her – though not hysterical, as many mothers would be under such circumstances. Irène is under constant watch; Mme, Dr, C. and nurse have been taking turns looking after her. There is no shortage of doctors in the house, so the child will not want for proper care and treatment.

I have noted something that may be of future import: When the child's nurse knelt at Irène's bedside to pray for her safety, Mme became quite agitated, and forbade the nurse to continue. I do not know what grievance Mme holds against Heaven, but she clearly does not want the Almighty to have a say in her daughter's fate.

* * *

7 November

Little Irène seems to be recovering, thank God – begging Mme's pardon, in the unlikely event that she should ever see these pages. I am told that her fever broke late last night, which news seemed to free everyone from a ponderous concern that had burdened all the members of the household since she first fell ill. C. looked after her for some hours early this morning, then returned to our room and slept through most of the day. I doubt he has eaten since yesterday; I must remember to carry up a tray when I return this evening.

Our two weeks will soon draw to a close. I hope that C. and I have made ourselves sufficiently indispensable, for I can think of nowhere to go should we be turned out.

* * *

10 November

I have lost most of a night's rest to anxiety for our immediate futures, but my fears were evidently unfounded: Our probationary fortnight has passed into indefinite service apparently without my employer's notice, or, at the least, without his comment. It seems that our arrangement for a two-week trial has faded altogether from Dr's mind, which suits my purpose; I am more than content to stay on. Despite our relatively short time here, I have quite settled into the routine, unorthodox though it may be, and even C. has been accepted as a sort of laboratory assistant to M and Mme. Judging by the comments I have overheard, I believe they are pleasantly shocked by C.'s apparently inborn aptitude for chemistry. To anyone well acquainted with my master, this hidden skill with chemical agents should come as no surprise; for my part, I am only pleased that the years of clandestine research in C.'s laboratory have at last come to serve some more constructive purpose than disorienting the local livestock with experimental potions.

I do, however, hope that C. will view the laboratory work as an opportunity – rather, a mandate – to improve his French. His pronunciation is still atrocious.

It is not yet late, but I shall end here and retire. I feel I must make up for last night's lost sleep, for in this house it is not wise to lose one's mental acuity, even for a day.

* * *

19 November

I hardly know where to begin today's entry, for I passed most of the day dashing from one room to the next, and trying in vain to perform the duties of three men at once. I fear I shall fall asleep before finishing, but I am bound to forget some detail if I do not record it tonight.

To begin, the house experienced a torrent of unexpected guests: In the morning, the family was paid a brief visit by M Jacques Curie, Dr's eldest son and M Pierre's older brother. Jacques wished to see little Irène, who was awakened and brought down by the nurse. Her disrupted sleep left her in a foul humour, and she was hastily returned to her crib once her uncle had seen her, though her wretched cries could be heard throughout the house for a quarter of an hour thereafter. After M Jacques took his leave, M and Mme cloistered themselves in the laboratory and did not reappear for some time, their day's work having already been delayed.

Shortly after luncheon, M and Mme were paid a call by a colleague at the University, accompanied by one of his students. At nearly the same hour Dr Curie received Dr Bouchard, an old acquaintance who had driven over to lend him some recently-published medical journals. Fortunately M and Mme soon took their guests to the laboratory, leaving the drawing-room free for the Drs., though the arrangement required me to make frequent flights between the kitchen, the drawing-room and the laboratory to attend the guests.

About an hour later the light from the windows dimmed abruptly, and the low rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance. Dr Bouchard quickly excused himself, as he desired to return to his home in _Saint-Germain-des-Prés _before supper. Dr soon closeted himself with the new journals and dismissed me to other duties. The group in the laboratory – consisting of M, Mme, C., Louis de Chaney, a _Maître de Conférence_ at the University, and Albert, _Vicomte _de Tournay, who, with indifference to his social position, is pursuing scientific study – elected to wait out the storm and continue their research.

Before I had begun to lay the table for supper the wind, which had been whistling ominously throughout the afternoon, began to tear at the house with frightful hostility. Irène, terrified by the howling in the eaves and rattling of the nursery windows, set to screaming and refused to be consoled by nurse or mother. Within a quarter of an hour the heavy rain – not falling, but blowing past the windows like billowing sheets – had filled the streets, and the whole house creaked and groaned with a terrible noise.

Presently, a worse sound – a cracking, ripping punctuation that echoed through the whole of the house – spurred M and myself to the top floor, where we discovered the upper stairs barricaded by the limb of a tree that had stabbed through the ceiling. Above it stretched a hole in the roof as long as my two arms, which was now admitting a steady stream of rain that cascaded down the stairs in a miniature waterfall.

It was the work of nearly an hour, with M, C., myself and _le vicomte_ working in shirtsleeves, to dislodge the tree and stretch a length of oilcloth across the damaged roof. By the time we had the cloth tacked in place well enough that it would not blow away, the storm had spent its fury, and mocked us with a drizzling, cold rain. Abandoning any pretense of propriety, we retired to the kitchen, where I built up the fire and served hot wine and coffee, followed by a very late – but desperately satisfying – supper.

After supper, the guests departed; M drew a hot bath for himself, and Mme retired. I spent another hour attempting to minimise the damage caused by the water on the rugs and stairs before returning to our room, where I found C. wrapped deeply in the blankets from both of our beds, his hair still damp from the rain. I searched for additional blankets, but I fear they have been appropriated by another member of the household on this cold, wet night.

I fear to deprive C. of the covers' warmth; his constitution is delicate, and I cannot allow him to take a chill. Perhaps I shall sleep beneath my coat tonight.

* * *

20 November

I awoke this morning to find myself draped over with my own wool blanket. It seems a mystery, as C. does not appear to have moved since last night; but I see that his cocoon is now only one blanket thick, so the answer seems obvious. This rare act of kindness on my master's part fills me with an irrational happiness – although I do wish that this uncharacteristic generosity had moved him to act _before _I spent a night huddled beneath the scant warmth of my overcoat.

* * *

25 November

A part of me yearns to cry out, Peace at last! – for after days of noise and dust and haggling with labourers, the roof is at last repaired, and the house restored to its original state. The tree limb has been cut apart and taken away; the damaged ceiling timber replaced; the roof re-shingled. I myself have just finished sweeping the last bits of saw-dust and debris from the stairs.

Now that the cleaning is finished, the house seems strangely quiet. The family is out for the day – Dr to visit a patient, M and Mme to consult a colleague – and even Irène seems inclined to spend the long afternoon peacefully asleep. I find myself with a free hour, which I believe I shall use to look over some of Dr's new medical journals, which he invited me to study at my leisure.

* * *

25 November, late

I have spent every free moment of the day poring over Dr's books and journals. I am amazed by the new research being done here in France: Studies that would not be spoken of, much less permitted, in England have advanced greatly under the tolerant watch of the French. Just now I have finished a most fascinating report detailing several clinical pathophysiological observations of postmortem dissection – how it would scandalize the Royal College of Surgeons! – and although the clock has just struck two, I am loath to put down the volume for fear I should not have another opportunity to study it. I shall make thorough notes in the back pages of this diary until I can procure my own copies of these valuable journals.

* * *

1 December

I have borrowed a number of books and reports from Dr, who is pleased by my interest and tells me I may use them freely until Dr Bouchard returns to collect them, which should be in two weeks or so. I have begun a routine of rising early and devoting a half-hour to study each morning before my household duties begin, and taking meals in my room where I may read for a few minutes more. In this way I hope to keep abreast of the latest advances, and improve my medical knowledge on the whole. It has been my hope, though faint now, that perhaps someday I shall be able to complete my studies formally, and – should we ever return again to England, which would, naturally, be at C.'s sole discretion – join the Royal College of Physicians, as once I planned. But that choice is far in the dim future, which, for good or ill, is not to be mapped by man. In any case, I shall avail myself of all opportunities to learn while I am here.

Albert de Tournay is to call again this evening. C. would not own it if asked, but he is impatient for the young man's visit. I believe he quite enjoys the company of _le vicomte_, who cannot be more than a year or two older than himself, and who – I have recently learned – speaks very good English. I have extracted a promise from C. to exchange conversation in both English and French, for his accent is still very much in need of polishing.

* * *

2 December

Passed a very pleasant evening with young de Tournay yesterday. While C. exhibited an uncharacteristic sociality, and indeed seemed to hang on every word spoken by _le vicomte, _the latter seemed far more interested in engaging me in medical discussion, in spite of my many attempts to steer the conversation back to broader subjects and draw C. into our polite intercourse. I fear C. was rather offended by the snub, unintentional though it may have been. He was rather short with me last night, and I can attribute it to no other cause.

In fairness to de Tournay, there is no reason for him to know that C. is but a year or two younger than himself, has many of the same interests, and even matches him in nobility – exceeds him, to be precise, for young Albert is still _vicomte_, while C. came into his title several years ago. De Tournay is justified in believing that I am near his own age and engaged in the same field of study; indeed, our conversation seemed to reveal that he shared far more in common with me than with C. As we learned, de Tournay attended London University – as did I, a few years earlier – until a shortage of funds necessitated his return to Paris a year ago. This, too, we have in common; my family stretched every penny to save ₤600 for my tuition at the University, and still it was not enough to balance my debts.

As a child, de Tournay told us, he spent considerable time staying with relations near Richmond, whence his excellent English. Although we could not discuss it for fear of discovery, I noted that many of the names _le vicomte_ gave as friends in London are mutual acquaintances of C.'s extended family. This coincidence is nearly too perfect; and for the first time since our journey began, I find myself wishing for my old contacts and the reliable band of informants that I maintained in London, when I could – and frequently was called upon to – uncover any man's secrets and family history within half a day. While I do not think that _le vicomte _is more than what he claims, I would feel safer still knowing more about him. I have no doubt that our enemies still prowl in the alleys of every city, working their evil in the shadows. Whether or not Delilah knows of our survival, I do not know, but I believe I am justified in being suspicious of anyone who draws close to C.

For the time being, however, C. believes he has found a friend, and for that I am glad. No doubt he has missed the company of his usual band of followers these past few months. Busy as our bohemian life has been, at times it still seems terribly quiet without Merryweather, Oscar and even that charlatan Clehador underfoot.

* * *

6 December

I have spent the past few afternoons assisting Dr as he makes his rounds, the cooler weather having given rise to a number of cases of coryza. Dr's regular patients have come to know me over the past weeks, and in spite of my English accent, I seem to have become something of a favorite. Most of them regard me well enough that I could likely establish my own small medical practice in Paris, should Dr choose truly to retire, as he often claims is his intent.

In honor of St Nicholas' Day today, little Irène received a number of sweets and trinkets from the dailies, all of whom adore the child. Each of these domestic magi delivered her gift with clandestine jubilance, as Mme does not encourage the celebration of saints' days. Irène seemed to enjoy her treats in spite of her ignorance of the holiday.

* * *

12 December

I am not sure how C. manages to find them, but in every place we have lived – Cornwall, London, Paris – my dear master has always attracted the queerest sort of folk. Whether among the jewels of the Season or the very dregs of society, he continually added to his motley roster of gypsies, mediums, mystics, fortune tellers, phrenologists, serial murderers, disenfranchised peers, liberal thinkers, and not a few reanimated corpses, to say nothing of the agents of Delilah who trolled his steps like sharks at a cannery.

The latest in this series is Albert de Tournay, or _le petit vicomte_, as I have taken to calling him, who arrived at the house today with a new publication beneath his elbow. It is called _La Fronde_, and it is clearly intended as a platform for _les __féministes _to trumpet their cause and demand equality in law, politics, medicine &c. Albert explained that the paper was put out by a well-known actress named Marguerite Durand, whose photograph he also showed me. Albert claims to have seen Durand in all her glory on the stage when he was young; and from the softness of his gaze as he looked upon her picture, it is a simple matter to fill in what has transpired in his mind in the intervening years.

It is not the content of the periodical itself which alarms me – indeed, I can sympathise with the feminists, for I have known a great many women who were the intellectual equals, and perhaps superiors, of their husbands and employers – but rather the strange luminescence that comes into young Albert's eyes when he reads it. The French as a race are prone to sudden revolution, and I feel that _le petit vicomte_ is on the very brink of some mad campaign. But where the rebels of a previous century rolled the tumbrels in the name of their goddess of war,_ Liberté!_ Albert will go into battle with _Marguerite!_ upon his lips.

Fortunately, as C.'s court of oddities goes, _le petit vicomte_ is one of the least volatile specimens. I'm actually rather fond of the boy, despite his social and perhaps political idiosyncrasies; he is quite intelligent, and has the makings of an excellent physician – provided he continues his studies, and does not abandon all intellectual pursuit for a tricolor rosette and a banner of _féminité__! égalité! sororité!_

* * *

12 December, _addendum_

To no-one's surprise, Mme is enchanted with _La Fronde_. I have heard from Dr that she was something of a revolutionary herself, rising far above the level of education permitted to women in her homeland, so it follows that she should support such progressive, if inflammatory, discourse in her adopted country.

* * *

21 December

This evening I had the opportunity of meeting Dr Bouchard once again, as Dr wished me to return the books and journals he had lent – which, thankfully, I have had ample opportunity to study in the interim. It was an enlightening visit, for many reasons; on my way to our meeting-place I walked through a part of Paris I had not seen before, where I was able to watch children playing on the steps and pavement – much the same as they do in England – while their parents worked and scrubbed and baked, this last producing tantalizing odors that wafted temptingly into the street, reminding me that I had not yet had my supper. Christmas being so near, many people are already decorating their houses with _santons, _some crafted to look like shepherds or magi, others to look like common folk: the priest, the butcher, the blacksmith, &c.

I briefly entertained the thought of bringing back a _santon _decorated like the livery-master as a token for C., but reconsidered when I remembered that I must continue to share a room with him for the foreseeable future. It is not wise to provoke someone who has access to one's bedclothes, particularly in the middle of winter.

I had arranged to meet Dr Bouchard in the _foyer_ of the _Hôtel d'Alsace_, a luxurious establishment in _Saint-Germain-des-Prés_ that is well beyond my current means, where the Dr apparently makes regular calls on a patient who lives there. After I had returned the books, the Dr invited me to stay for a drink, and generously treated me to a glass of mulled wine. We sat before the taproom fire for some time, conversing on various topics, but largely the research described in his medical journals. The Dr seemed impressed by my knowledge, and correctly guessed that I had studied at London University. 'It is in the way you answer,' he explained. 'London University has a reputation not only for training the finest medical students in England, but also for giving the most challenging and difficult examinations. Both you and Albert – the student of M de Chaney, you remember, of course – return answers that are far more thorough than the question that was put to you. It is a habit that the student develops when he is pressed constantly with deep, probing questions.'

Heretofore I have never noticed this tendency in myself, but now that I have been made aware of it, I begin to understand why, after C. has asked me a question, I often find him nodding with a glazed look in his eyes as I give the answer. Perhaps I should endeavour to be less exhaustive in my explanations.

I passed a pleasant and constructive evening with the Dr, eliciting an invitation to join him again when the next journals were published, and returned to the house well after dark, and still lacking supper. When I arrived, I found that I had not been missed; M and Mme were still deep in their work; Dr had retired for the evening; and C. was entertaining Albert de Tournayin the drawing-room, this time – thankfully – speaking in French. His lamentable pronunciation, for which I had nearly given up hope, is gradually improving thanks to his frequent conversations with _le petit vicomte_. (It is worth noting, however, that while his accent is markedly improved, his vocabulary is expanding in a rather less suitable direction. There are, after all, only so many things that boys of that age will discuss when left to themselves... and, as I am constantly reminded, we are most definitely in Paris.)

I greeted our guest, and politely declined his invitation to join the conversation. Instead I took a route through the kitchen to appropriate a cold but welcome supper, then retired to our room to study and write.

* * *

26 December

Christmas has passed without fanfare; Mme has no desire to attend Mass, and her family likewise disregards the holiday. Thus the routine continues as usual, with only the absence of the nurse and cook to mark the day. I must confess to some disappointment; I always enjoyed the reverent Christmas Day services at St Paul's, which I was privileged to attend as C.'s chaperon, as well as the supper, games and dancing that followed at home. Even today, which in England would be Boxing Day, is nothing more than another drab Sunday in the _Maison Curie_.

C. also seems to be affected by the lack of festivities, but for a different reason. When he was a child, he was not allowed out of the house to go to services, and forced formal suppers with his family did nothing to endear the holiday to him. It was Merryweather who turned the Hargreaves' Christmas into a grand jubilee – one that would likely appall those present at the Nativity with its decadence and excess, but which succeeded in reconciling the day to C.

Now I wonder if his thoughts are turned toward England, where Merryweather is spending her first Christmas alone. Of course she would not be alone; I am certain she is with the family, Master Neil and the rest, and even if she shunned their company, Oscar – obnoxious, dedicated lout that he can be – would never allow her to be by herself on such an occasion. But I can see how dreadfully C. has missed her these past few days, and I can only imagine her desolation at passing this holiday without her beloved brother.

* * *

29 December

I have been given to understand that I may expect an end-of-year reward for my services – the custom being somewhat different here than in England, where such a gift is traditionally delivered on Boxing Day – which sum I hope will, combined with our meager savings, be enough to purchase several necessary items for C. and myself, and perhaps a small chest or trunk in which to store them. Now that we are no longer scavenging on the street, I hope that we may revert to some semblance of civilised travel for the next stage of our journey, whenever that time may come.

* * *

31 December

This morning, armed with about 80 per c. of the money we have earned since arriving in Paris – the remainder having been put aside for emergencies – I plunged in among the riot of shoppers in central Paris to purchase the things we need. For the most part I stayed to the side streets, where the second-hand clothing and other inexpensive items are sold. I purchased several articles of clothing, including a shirt each for myself and C. and a set of collar and cuffs – not celluloid, which I prefer when I am engaged in any sort of labour, but linen that will look fine with a little starching – a wool coat for C., and a few other necessaries.

In a dingy resale shop I found the day's treasure: a small dark steamer case that, owing to its filthy state, I was able to purchase for next to nothing. After carrying it to the house – an action which necessitated the subsequent laundering of my own coat – I took it into the garden and dedicated an hour and a quarter to scrubbing it with soap and a stiff brush, which removed most of the grime and revealed its true color: an attractive deep green, with brass fittings and corner-guards. At one time it must have been a very expensive piece; I was fortunate to find it in so poor a state, and at such a low price! I have set the case and tray by the kitchen fire to dry during supper, after which I will replace the lining-paper. I would like it to be completely renovated before I show it to C.

It is nearly time to lay the table for supper, which will be somewhat grander than the usual. M and Mme are hosting a very small _soirée_ for a few of their colleagues to celebrate the new year. I have heard that both Dr Bouchard and Louis de Chaney are to be in attendance; if they stay late, perhaps I will have a chance to speak with them again.

* * *

31 December, late

The guests, who included Dr Bouchard, de Chaney and Mme d'Ayen from the _Ecole des Beaux-Arts,_ departed about half-past ten; the evening's early close can be credited to the poor weather. After finishing with the supper-things and glasses, I was at at last free to finish the work on my steamer case. When the paste was dry, I carried it up to our room and showed it to C., who is pleased – unaccountably so – to have a piece of baggage that will travel with us. Now I am forced to wonder at the wisdom of my plan; I believe my intentions were correct, but too often have I seen the look that came into C.'s eyes as he examined the trunk. I am certain that he has some hidden purpose in mind for it, and can only hope that it will be to our ultimate benefit.

As I look at my master now, swaddled in rough wool blankets with his untidy hair tangled across the pillow, I am reminded incongruously of the dirty steamer case in the shop. I wonder... were I to take soap and a stiff brush to this unkempt servant-boy, would an hour's scrubbing reveal the notorious Earl of Hargreaves?

The clock in the hall is striking midnight, which means that it is now January 1, 1898. I shall close here for the night, and start another entry for the new year.


End file.
